A Friendly Game of Murder (14 page)

“Of corpse,” Benchley agreed. “But now that we know that Mr. Jordan is alive, what exactly do we do with him?”

Dorothy raised an eyebrow. “I know what I’d like to do with him.”

“Please, Mrs. Parker,” Benchley said, disgusted. “Just a moment ago you thought he was dead.”

She smiled. She merely wanted to get Benchley’s goat. “Very well, then. Let’s wake him up.”

Benchley reached out and slapped Jordan’s cheek a few times, gently at first but then with increasing firmness.

Jordan’s face wrinkled. “Ow . . .”

“That’s enough, Fred,” she said. “You’ll slap the boy silly.”

“No, he’s not hurting me,” Jordan groaned. His eyes fluttered open. Propping himself up on one elbow, he felt the back of his head and winced. “It’s my head. Somebody clocked me but good.”

“Who attacked you?” Dorothy asked, taking in the room with a sweep of her hand. “What happened in here?”

“Don’t know.” Jordan jerked his thumb at the adjoining room. “I was lying in my bed when I heard a ruckus in here. I came running. As soon as I opened the door and stepped inside—
wham!
Somebody must have hit me from behind. Next thing I knew, I woke up to see your pretty face.”

“You’re too kind,” Benchley said, batting his eyelashes. “Now let’s get you up off this messy floor before you embarrass yourself.”

They helped Jordan to his feet. The man wore a tight-fitting undershirt, loose striped pajama bottoms and moccasin-like slippers. “Wait a minute,” he said, looking around at the clutter on the floor. He leaned down and snatched up his black leather orthopedic shoe. “Can’t forget this. Thought I might be able to use it as a weapon.”

“How ironic,” Benchley observed wryly. “You were armed with footwear.”

Jordan shrugged. “You could say that. Didn’t do much good, though.” He shuffled toward Dr. Hurst’s bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress and took a close look at the old man. “Not a scratch on him. Didn’t even wake him up. Whoever it was, he didn’t want anything to do with Dr. Hurst.”

“Then what did the intruder want?” she asked.

“He wanted something the doctor has—or had.”

With a guilty pang, she thought of Dr. Hurst’s telegram in her purse. She had picked it up again when they had left her apartment. Was the intruder looking for the telegram?

Jordan jumped up and ran into the adjacent room. He picked up his other shoe and looked inside. “Gone! It’s gone! Damn it!” He threw the shoe to the floor. “Whoever it was, he took it!”

“He?” she asked. “He who? Took what?”

Benchley spoke ominously. “Maybe it was you-know-who.”

Dorothy remembered the names from the telegram.
Lloyds or Pinks? Or the Berley brothers? Or even . . . Lydia?

But Benchley remained silent.

“Who?” she and Jordan asked simultaneously.

“Ted Besh, of course!”

At that, Dr. Hurst’s eye fluttered open. It rolled in its socket to look over the disaster in the room. Then the eye silently closed again, and there was a pained look on Dr. Hurst’s distorted old face.

“You’d better go,” Jordan said angrily, his arms crossed over his chest. “Now.”

Chapter 22

“I
need a drink,” Dorothy said as she hurried down the hallway. “Come on, let’s go back to my room and sort this through.” Benchley followed her quickly.

On the elevator, she pried open one of Maurice’s eyes. “Do you remember someone getting on at this floor recently? Maybe someone carrying a locket?”

Maurice grunted. “Hmmmphh . . .”

She let go of his eyelid. It snapped closed like a mousetrap.

“I think we can take that as a no,” Benchley said.

Back in Dorothy’s room, her dog trotted around their feet as she poured each of them a small glass of cheap scotch.

“Make it last,” she said, handing it to Benchley. “That’s the last of my emergency stash.”

Benchley raised his glass. “Here’s to emergency stashes.”

“And to my gent’s mustaches.”

They clinked their glasses and sipped.

“So,” he began, “we’ve learned that your Mr. Jordan is certainly not one to be trifled with.”

“First of all, Fred, he’s not
my
Mr. Jordan,” she said firmly. “Secondly, I was not trifling with him. And thirdly, what in heaven’s name was he talking about? What went missing?”

“I think you already guessed it,” he said. “The necklace—Dr. Hurst’s locket. The one around Bibi’s swan-like neck. The one that Mary Pickford stealthily took from said neck. The one that subsequently went missing from Mary’s dresser.”

“And the one that’s mentioned in this telegram?” She held up the slip of yellow paper. “The ‘valuable item’?”

Benchley took the telegram from her hand and read it over again. “‘Keep item safe and in good condition or deal is off.’ So Dr. Hurst was going to take the necklace to Chicago for some deal?”

“But the quarantine likely changed his plans,” she said. “So Dr. Hurst gave it to Fairbanks for safekeeping.”

“But then Bibi took it from Fairbanks’ lousy hiding spot, where Mary had seen it. So later on Mary took it from Bibi.”

“Then Jordan took it from Mary’s dresser,” she said.

“Then someone took it from Jordan’s shoe. And knocked him into next week and demolished Dr. Hurst’s room in the process.”

“But who?” she asked.

“Not only who, but why?”

“The why is because it’s a valuable item,” she said, and drained her glass of scotch. She sat down on her couch, and Woody jumped into her lap.

“As for the who . . .” Benchley glanced at the telegram. “Perhaps it’s the colorfully named Lloyds or Pinks? Or the mysterious Berley brothers, whoever they may be.”

She sighed. “We can’t forget about Lydia. Remember, she’s the reason why we went tearing up to Dr. Hurst’s room in the first place? We feared she might harm him.”

“Little Lydia Trumbull.” Benchley almost laughed. “She can barely hit a high note anymore, much less hit a strapping young adventurer like your Mr. Jordan. I can’t imagine her knocking him senseless.”

“Again, he’s not my Mr. Jor—” she said. “Never mind. But we still don’t know where Lydia went off to, and she certainly has a strike against her by hiding this chloroform.”

She removed the little brown bottle from her purse and set it on her side table.

“My money’s still on the infamous Ted Besh,” Benchley said. “What if Ted Besh is some longtime rival from Dr. Hurst’s younger days?”

“Well . . .” Dorothy said uncertainly.

“There was certainly something foreboding in the old man’s voice when he said that name,” Benchley continued, his face animated. “Perhaps this Besh fellow has returned from days gone by with the sole purpose of avenging some past injustice given at the hands of Dr. Hurst. A botched tonsillectomy, perhaps?”

She frowned. “Sounds far-fetched. And I bet Frank Case has found no such name in the guest register.”

Benchley raised his merry eyebrows. “Perhaps this mysterious Mr. Besh is registered under an assumed name?”

She was skeptical. “A John Doe?”

“Or a Johnnie Walker?” he asked playfully.

“Jack Daniels?”

“Jim Beam!”

She chuckled at him. “What kind of name is Besh, anyhow?”

He laughed. “Nothing but the besh for you, my dear.”

She laughed and looked into his eyes. She laid her hand on his. “I’m so very glad you’re here, Fred. I don’t know how I’d get along without you.”

He rested his head against the couch and returned her gaze. “Certainly, Mrs. Parker.” He spoke softly. “I felt a little, well, a little rotten for leaving Gertrude and the boys at home on such a snowy, cold night. But to tell you the truth, I’m glad I’m here, too.”

She felt a little pang of jealousy (and, to be honest, guilt) at the mention of his wife and children. But she quickly got over it. He was here with her, after all, wasn’t he?

“Truly, Fred,” she said gratefully. “If you hadn’t shown up tonight, I would have been at my wit’s end.”

He smiled that warm, comforting smile. “Nonsense, Mrs. Parker. There is no end to your wit.” He spoke in a whisper as intimate as the rustle of sheets.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she whispered back. She moved closer to him.

“And where exactly is that?”

Then Woodrow Wilson stood up, pressing his wet muzzle in between them. Both Dorothy and Benchley reared back in surprise. She had nearly forgotten about the little dog. He turned around once or twice in her lap, then sat down on his haunches. His big, dark bulging eyes looked forlornly at her.

She cupped the dog’s bat-eared head in her hands. “Oh, my little man, you need to go outside, don’t you? It’s been hours since you’ve been out. You poor thing.”

Benchley reached out and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Poor little pooch.” Then he spoke to her. “But what can you do? You can’t take him outside. You can’t leave the building because of the quarantine.”

She had an idea. “But I can go outside. I already have.”

He looked at her curiously.

“Up on the roof. I can take him up there.”

With mixed feelings, she pushed herself away from Benchley and got up from the couch. The dog jumped down to the threadbare imitation Persian carpet. Part of her regretted that the dog had literally stuck his nose into her affairs. . . .

But, she realized, another, smaller part of her was relieved.
Where were things heading on the couch just now? She couldn’t lead a married man astray, could she? Or was he leading her astray?

She shook her head to clear it. She picked up the bottle of chloroform—she’d need to show it to Doyle—then she went to her front closet to get her coat and Woody’s leash. She clipped the leash onto the little dog’s collar, then stood and addressed Benchley.

“Perhaps while I’m taking him for his walk, you could go down to the switchboard and call Captain Church, as Woollcott had suggested.”

Benchley was standing now, absentmindedly searching his jacket pockets for something. He pulled out his pipe and clamped it in his teeth. She suspected he didn’t need to smoke. He just needed to busy himself, distract himself with some movement.

“Yes,” he stammered, with the pipe in his clenched teeth. “Switchboard. Yes, indeed. Good thought, Mrs. Parker. Good thought indeed. I’ll go this instant.”

Without another word, he followed her and the dog out her door and into the hallway.

“Come up to Doug and Mary’s penthouse,” she said, “when you’re through.”

He raised his pipe in acknowledgement, then turned and went toward the flight of stairs.

She gently tugged the little dog’s leash and walked toward the elevator. “Well, Woody, I guess you’ve taught me a lesson just now. Always look out for number one.”

Then she heard an unusual, surprising sound.

Chapter 23

T
he strange noise came from inside Mrs. Volney’s apartment. It was the sound of laughter and chatter. And not just one voice but several voices. The sounds of conversation and merriment weren’t unusual in the Algonquin—the surprising part was that they were coming from behind Mrs. Volney’s door in the wee hours in the morning. But it would have taken Dorothy by surprise at any time of the day.

She and Woody slowly approached the door, and the noise of talk and laughter became louder, more distinct. No men could be heard. It was only women laughing.

Jeez, is there a tea party going on?
she wondered, growing annoyed.
Isn’t that just like a bunch of useless women—sitting around having a quilting bee while a murder investigation is under way
.

They laughed again as a group, and Woody yipped at the noise.

Shaking her head, tugging Woody to follow, Dorothy moved past Mrs. Volney’s door.

Behind her, the door opened.

“Dorothy, wait,” called Jane Grant. Ruth Hale was standing behind her in the open doorway.

Woody spun around, pulling to go back. Dorothy followed him.

“Jane? Ruth? What are you two doing in there?” she asked them. “Is old Mrs. Volney leading a coven of witches? Is Alexander Woollcott boiling in a big cauldron in there, by any chance?” But what she really meant was,
What are you two intelligent young women doing in that rotten old shrew’s apartment?

“We’re discussing Bibi. Come on in. Join us.”

Dorothy peeked past them to see at least a dozen other women inside. She was surprised to see that her guess was correct: It was a tea party. Mrs. Volney was actually serving them tea. Woody strained at his leash, trying to get in.

“No,” she said to him firmly. She spoke less harshly but still firmly to the two women. “No, thank you. I have to take this little fellow out for a leak, and I’m busy helping Dr. Doyle.” But what she really meant was,
I’d rather go look for Bibi’s body and find out who killed her than sit and gossip about the sad, dead girl behind her back
.

Jane and Ruth somehow understood this as a reprimand. “Good luck, then,” Jane said quietly. “Come back if you change your mind.” They began to close the door again.

Before the door shut, Dorothy spotted Lydia Trumbull sitting among the group of women. Dorothy was about to call out—to catch Lydia’s attention. But then the door was closed. And Dorothy stood there, angry at herself for taking an arbitrary stand on chitchat and gossip. She didn’t mind a little gossip now and again.

No, the real reason she was angry was because they were all gathered inside thick as thieves while she was outside by herself as usual. Outside the group. Outside the invited circle of women. Outside, looking in. Woody stood facing the door, waiting to be let in.

She was about to yank on his leash to drag him along. But she stopped herself. Rather than taking her anger out on the little dog, she leaned down and picked him up, held him tight and carried him like a baby to the elevator.

* * *

On his way to the telephone operator’s office, Benchley strolled across the lobby, which was mostly quiet now. Harpo Marx was curled up on one of the couches and sleeping serenely. Benchley, whose mind was a jumble of thoughts, envied Harpo’s peace and quiet.

So when he saw Frank Case and Luigi the waiter hurry toward him, Benchley was glad for the distraction. Both Case and Luigi carried armfuls of pillows and bundles of blankets.

“The staff need somewhere to sleep,” Case explained. “The spare maids’ quarters on the top floor are not big enough for them all. So they’ll have to take turns between napping in the staff lounge in the basement and roughing it on the floor of the Pergola Room.”

Spare maids’ quarters on the top floor? Staff lounge in the basement?
Benchley wasn’t aware of either area.

He began to ask Case about this, but the hotel manager interrupted him. “Before you ask, I checked the hotel register. But we have no guest with the name Ted Besh or anything like it. No Ted or Theodore. No Besh, Bosh, Bush, or any similar surname.”

“How about Beam? Jim Beam?”

Case looked puzzled.

“Never mind,” Benchley said. He clapped his extinguished pipe over a potted palm to shake out the ash. “I’m so confused, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Or what you’re doing.” Case frowned at the discarded ash in the planter.

“Oh. Right.” Benchley sheepishly slid the pipe into his pocket.

Case and Luigi hurried off.

Still in a fog, Benchley made his way to the operator’s office. Unlike Mrs. Parker, who was a resident in the hotel, he did not know the switchboard operator very well. He knocked softly, reluctantly, then hesitantly opened the door.

The fog in his head, blown aside by a horrified sense of alarm, cleared instantly.

Mavis was slumped face forward, with her head lying awkwardly on the switchboard. Her arms were splayed haphazardly across the rows of switches and plugs.

She was as still and as silent as a fallen gravestone.

* * *

Following in the tiny paw prints of Woodrow Wilson, Dorothy and Doyle wandered together along the snowy roof. The dog meandered from here to there, his small snout sniffing in the snow as he tried to pick up a scent.

This time, instead of going out through a window, Dorothy used the regular door to the roof, which, she learned, was just down the hallway from Fairbanks’ apartment. Now she looked out over the lights of the silent, white-covered city. The snow had finally stopped. A soft but frigid wind blew the tatters of moonlight-tinged clouds across the dark sky. Above the clouds, the night was velvet black, spotted with silvery-blue stars. She took in deep breaths of the crisp, cold night air. For once it didn’t smell like soot.

She had found Doyle in the penthouse. He had gotten nowhere with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, he told her. Their explanations went in circles. The couple teeter-tottered back and forth, arguing angrily with each other one minute, then passionately reconciling the next. When Dorothy had invited him to join her to take the dog for a walk, Doyle almost literally jumped at the chance.

Once on the roof, she broke the news to Doyle that someone had recently ransacked Dr. Hurst’s room. She quickly reassured him that Dr. Hurst was unharmed—not even awakened by the ruckus. But Jordan had been knocked out.

“Knocking a man from behind!” Doyle huffed, shaking his big old head. “It’s perfectly reprehensible. Who would do such a thuggish, ungentlemanly thing?”

“An ungentlemanly thug, perhaps?” she said, perhaps a bit too flippantly. She was merely trying to put Doyle at ease. In any case, the only serious injury Jordan seemed to have suffered was to his pride.

“I should go down and examine him myself,” Doyle said.

“Of course you should. Make sure he and Dr. Hurst are all right. But a word to the wise . . . don’t ask Jordan about the locket.”

She explained about how Jordan had admitted to hiding the stolen locket in his shoe. But it had gone missing in the attack.

Doyle was angry with Jordan now. Moving in long strides, he began pacing in the snow. Woody scuttled out of the way. “That brigand! Stealing a locket from a lady’s bureau. But not only that, it was Quentin’s possession in the first place. In essence, he pickpocketed his own employer! I would not have suspected this from Mr. Jordan. He seemed a perfect gentleman and a worthy employee.”

Dorothy thought of something that she hadn’t fully considered before. “What if Jordan hadn’t stolen it from Dr. Hurst but stolen it
for
Dr. Hurst?”

Doyle stopped short. “What’s that you say? What sort of rubbish is that?”

“What if Jordan somehow knew it was in Mary’s dresser? What if, as a loyal employee, he snatched it back on behalf of his disabled boss, who could no longer do so on his own?”

Doyle grunted. She had clearly planted a doubt in his mind. “Perhaps I should go talk to Mr. Jordan myself.” He strode toward the door to go back inside.

“You do that,” she said. “By the way, do you happen to recall the room number for the family with chicken pox?”

Doyle turned. “Chicken pox? Smallpox, you mean.”

“Oh, right . . . smallpox.”

“No, I don’t recall the room number. I didn’t visit the family myself. It was Quentin who diagnosed them.”

“So it was. Never mind. I’ll ask Frank Case. He’ll know which room they’re in.”

Doyle paused in the doorway. “I hear the skepticism in your voice, Dorothy. It’s rather distinct from your usual sarcastic tone. You think Quentin misdiagnosed that family.”

“I do,” she said flatly. “And I think he did it on purpose.”

Doyle considered this. “Perhaps. But to what end?”

“To try to escape somebody who’s after him. He thought he could use the quarantine to shut his pursuer out of the hotel. But he was too late. Whoever’s after him is already inside.”

* * *

Benchley stared at the motionless body of the switchboard operator.

“Not another one,” he groaned miserably to himself. A cold, sinister feeling crept up his legs and crawled along his spine.

He glanced around the little office. Was he alone? Could there be anyone else in the room? He hadn’t forgotten that
someone
had recently tried to lock him and Mrs. Parker in the subbasement freezer. And that someone was still somewhere in this hotel.

The single table lamp on top of the switchboard left narrow shadows in the corners. Even so, Benchley could see that no one else was here. He was alone with the body. All alone.

He forced himself to do more than stand there. Slowly he moved closer to get a better look at her.

Mavis was facedown on the switchboard. Her headset circled the top of her head like a tiara. Her dark hair covered her face like a veil.

Poor woman. Who did this to you?

One arm was curved awkwardly next to her head. The other arm stretched out along the edge of the switchboard desk. This arm looked as if it was in danger of slipping off the desk. Benchley could imagine what might happen if it did. If her arm dropped to her side, her whole body might tumble over with the weight of it and crumple into a heap onto the hardwood floor.

He couldn’t bear to witness that. So he reached out and gently grasped the arm with both hands. He gingerly moved it forward on the switchboard and away from the edge.

But as he did so, her body slumped down and backward. Her head lifted off the switchboard and tilted back against her chair. Benchley looked at her pale face: A few stray hairs crossed it like slash marks.

Then her eyes popped open.

Benchley yelled and jumped back.

The woman sat bolt upright and faced him. The headset went flying and landed with a clatter at Benchley’s feet. He leaped away from it as though it were a giant spider.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” she screamed at him. “You trying to scare me to death?”

“Scare
you
to death?” he gasped. “I thought you were already dead. You nearly scared
me
to death.”

“I was getting some much-deserved shut-eye,” she snapped, and picked up her headset. “What’s the idea, waking up a girl from her beauty sleep?”

“What’s the idea of pretending to be a corpse?” he asked. “Isn’t there enough of that going around?”

She ignored him. She was busy rummaging through a large purse. She pulled out a compact and flipped it open. Looking in the mirror, she smoothed down her hair.

After a long moment Benchley got his breathing and his racing heart almost under control. “Listen,” he told her, “Mr. Case is arranging sleeping . . . arrangements for the staff. In the Pergola Room. You’d be more comfortable there instead of by yourself in here.”

“Well, since I’m not getting any beauty sleep in here . . .” She stood up to go.

Then he remembered what he had come for. “Wait a moment. I need to make a call to the police.”

She stopped and frowned. “Isn’t there enough of that going around?”

He thought she might connect the call for him. Instead she mumbled some instructions and then staggered out the door.

Benchley faced the switchboard with trepidation—the thing was nearly as big as an upright piano. He was not on friendly terms with mechanical equipment and instruments. As a matter of fact, he secretly feared that technology was out to get him. Electric alarm clocks, typewriters, subway turnstiles, automobiles—they all held an element of danger. He sometimes told the story of a can opener that had once nearly decapitated him—or at least that’s the way he told it.

But except for the intimidating array of lights, plugs, cords and switches, perhaps this contraption didn’t look so dangerous after all. He finally sat down in Mavis’ chair and managed to put on the headset and microphone without too much difficulty. Just for fun, he flipped one of the switches at random—and it pinched his finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked on it.

“Very well, switchboard,” he said with narrowed eyes. He pushed up his sleeves. “Let the battle begin.”